


Can I be close to you?

by Sarah_hadeschild



Series: Amator Meae [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fluff, Fluff without Plot, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Netflix and Chill, Pining, Post-Canon, Sharing a Bed, Sleeping Together, Tired Crowley (Good Omens), just let them sleep honestly, the haunting of Bly Manor mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 07:21:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27169922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarah_hadeschild/pseuds/Sarah_hadeschild
Summary: “I’d be a bad host if I made you watch something you didn’t enjoy.”Crowley watched as Aziraphale fiddled with his ring, twisting it around and around his finger. He was nervous.Why was he so nervous?“Hey,” Crowley began, nudging Aziraphale’s thigh with his outstretched foot. “You know I’d enjoy it here even if I hated the movie, right? Even if it was…what’s that film I hate?”He smirked. “The Sound of Music.”“Right.Even if it was Sound of Music. I’d still want to be here. I’d make fun of it constantly, and you for watching it, but I’d still enjoy being here.” He cleared his throat. “With you.”AKA, 3 times Aziraphale and Crowley slept together, and 1 time they didn't.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Amator Meae [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2032978
Comments: 60
Kudos: 138





	1. A Tethering, of Sorts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The name of this fic is inspired by the song "Bloom," by the Paper Kites.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8inJtTG_DuU

Crowley’s left foot leapt from the footstool, jolting him awake. He’d been doing this on and off for the past half an hour— flinging a limb whenever his eyes began to droop. The Almost-Apocalypse had been averted weeks ago, but his heart had yet to settle. The bloody thing seemed to rev to life every time his eyes closed.

Apart from when he was in the bookshop.

“You know,” Aziraphale began, a piece of his popcorn suspended mid-air in front of his mouth, “you really needn’t stay for the end of the film if you’re that tired. We could always reschedule.”

“’s fine, Angel. I want to watch the film.” He bit back the _with you_ before it had time to surface.

“Are you sure? I know it’s a bit silly and if you’d rather watch something else—”

“Silly?” Crowley shook his head vehemently. Although he may deny his affection for _The Devil Wears Prada_ publicly, he refused to have the quality of the film dismissed so callously. Miranda Priestly deserved better. “’s good. I like it. And I’m the one that suggested we do something tonight. I can’t just leave now, can I?”

Aziraphale watched him, curiously. Crowley was using his sarcastic matter-of-fact tone with him— the one that meant he was certain of an argument that Aziraphale was about to lose. He didn’t mind, not really. He liked having Crowley on his couch, even if his head kept sinking lower along with his eyelids. Besides, his head was only inches away from Aziraphale’s shoulder, and he was not about to say or do anything that might curb its eventual path.

It still felt so new, this physical closeness between them as they sat shoulder to shoulder on the old couch, watching the television Crowley had insisted on installing against Aziraphale’s better judgement. ( _A television set, right next to his Oxford editions?_ The nerve.) 

He watched Crowley as he rubbed his eyes beneath his black shades, denying his exhaustion even as he stifled a yawn. _Adorable,_ he thought.

“But you’re obviously tired, and…” he paused the film. “I am worried about you, my dear.”

Crowley donned a reassuring smile. “No need worrying about me, Angel.”

“Still, I do.”

Almost imperceptibly, Crowley shook his head. “’s no need, really. I don’t need to sleep, I just like it is all.”

“…but you haven’t been sleeping lately?”

Crowley squirmed, reaching for the popcorn bowl so he’d have something to hold. “Not really.”

“Not since Armageddon?”

Crowley made a show of chewing his popcorn before answering. “You could say that.”

Aziraphale had seen this coming, he couldn’t deny it. Crowley had been jumpy ever since their reunion at St. James’ Park. He masked it well, with stylish clothes and glasses that blacked out the light. Crowley had always been anxious but this…this was something else. Aziraphale had dropped a dictionary the day before and the demon had nearly jumped out of his skin. So far, Heaven and Hell had failed in their attempt to destroy him, but Aziraphale worried that Crowley might do it to himself at the rate he was going. Like a piece of coal compressed into a diamond by the sheer force of its own terror.

“So you don’t need to sleep, but you’re tired now?”

“I’m tired all the time, Angel. I just feel it more when I’m here.”

“Oh.” 

So he _didn’t_ like the movie, then. Of course he didn’t, Aziraphale scolded himself. He should have known better. Crowley was stylish and exciting and he liked exciting things, not an evening in with a bookkeeper and a rented DVD. He should have known better.

Crowley saw the sadness that flickered behind the angel’s eyes and felt the panic within him swell. “Well not because of you! I just mean that I like it here. It’s sort of…I don’t know…calming.”

Aziraphale brightened at that, his nerves (for the moment) abated. Crowley _liked_ it here. He found it relaxing. And Crowley, whom Aziraphale suspected had been anxious since creation, was here with him, looking so peaceful and soft. He was so used to seeing Crowley’s eyes wide and attentive and warm, not heavy-lidded and still. It warmed Aziraphale’s heart to think that the one place Crowley felt he could be still was next to him.

The thought gave him hope.

Since there is no nonchalant way to say, _‘I love that you feel safe with me, because you are,’_ Aziraphale offered him a confession instead. “I haven’t been able to relax myself, you know. Since it happened.”

“Really?” Crowley asked, eyebrows raised. “You don’t seem all that different.”

 _Not when I’m with you,_ he wanted to say. “Yes, well…you haven’t seen me in the mornings, trying to make tea. Sometimes I forget myself and have to start all over because the pot has gone cold while I was busy thinking.”

“Huh. I didn’t know that about you.” 

_What else didn’t he know?_ Crowley nudged the angel with his shoulder; a small token of friendly comfort while he tried pointedly to avoid thoughts of Aziraphale, mornings, and mussed hair by the tea kettle.

“Mmm, well, I haven’t exactly been forthcoming on the matter.” He forced himself to face Crowley head-on. “I haven’t told anyone about that before— my worry.”

Crowley nodded. He didn’t exactly enjoy talking about his worries either, but they came up in conversation just the same. He blamed it on the fact that he wasn’t as good an actor as Aziraphale; his emotions always seemed to bubble up to the surface, whether he wanted them to or not. His glasses were his only hope of a decent poker face, in his eyes.

The demon’s long fingers extended, reaching for Aziraphale’s arm that was so close to his, but he thought better of it. _‘You go too fast for me, Crowley.’_

He hesitated, and Aziraphale had seen him.

“I’ll tell you what,” the angel said, a slight smile playing across his gentle face, “how about we put aside the movie for tonight and try to relax, for once.”

“Relax?” His heart was beating so loudly in his ears he feared he’d misheard.

“Well…yes?” Aziraphale tapped his shoulder twice; an invitation. “Come now, old boy, I saw you eyeing my shoulder like it’s a pillow. No need to pretend otherwise.”

Crowley swallowed hard. This was uncharted territory. No maps could guide him beyond this moment. “I…you won’t be uncomfortable?”

Aziraphale shook his head, the television set miraculously turned off, though Aziraphale couldn’t guess which one of them had done it. “Not at all.”

“But what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Well what are you going to do? I know you don’t go for sleeping.”

“I’d be willing to give it a try.”

“Really?” Crowley mused, sceptical. “You’re really going to sleep, for hours, forsaking your books for an entire night?”

The angel smiled. “Point taken. I suppose that I could always miracle up a book should sleep elude me. But either way, I think you’d be more comfortable, and I don’t mind helping you. I really don’t. Besides, it might help me, too. Help me to slow down a bit. To breathe.”

_Because the air has a way of following you out the door whenever you leave._

“Hmm.” Crowley’s entire face seemed to blink as he thought it over, already shimmying further down on the couch. “I suppose, if you think it’ll help.”

He didn’t say whom it would help.

“I believe it would, rather.”

Gingerly, he lowered his head onto Aziraphale’s shoulder. He moved at a glacial pace, as though a swift movement might give away the game. Once there, he nestled closer, feeling the angel’s shoulder with his cheek, seeking comfort. The sigh he released sounded awfully close to purring, but Aziraphale said nothing of it. 

_Best not to disturb the moment,_ he thought. 

The angel watched him as his eyes drifted shut. Crowley really did have the nicest eyelashes. So long and dark and dancing. He wondered what they might feel like if his shoulder had been bare— would they flutter against his skin, causing him to shiver? Without a second thought, Aziraphale shifted Crowley’s position as he brought his arm up behind him and ran a reassuring hand through his auburn hair. The demon shuttered at the contact and burrowed closer, his arm thrown haphazardly around Aziraphale’s middle. Their breaths fell like dominos, relieved to fall as they tumbled into one another.

Aziraphale ceased his ministrations only when Crowley’s lips parted around a muffled snore. His hand remained on the demon’s head as if holding his racing thoughts at bay by will alone.

The angel’s eyes began to droop the moment he realized that this must be what it feels like to be a boat brought into port. Tethered to the earth with rope tied by hands that know the strength of waves and how to hold on even in the darkness. Even in doubt.

For all he had read and all of the maps he had seen— many of them tucked away in this very shop— Aziraphale had no sense of direction where Crowley was concerned. No amount of research or studious preparation could help him navigate the waters ahead. All he knew was that the weight on his shoulder felt solid and firm, and he was prepared to do just about anything to feel it again. The presence and the warmth.

Outside, a single streetlamp lit up the world. A beacon; it shone like a lighthouse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! ^_^


	2. I Should Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter also comes with a song: "I Should Go," by Levi Kreis 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5moX0iBLi44

Aziraphale was not a sound sleeper. This was not new information to him— he’d tried sleeping a handful of times in his long life, with varying success. He found that he slept the same way he thought; flashes of interest here and there that recede quickly, yielding to a stronger force. 

There had always been a stronger force. Thoughts of Heaven and Hell— even the seductive complexity of the Russian tongue (he’d spent many days and nights devoted to that last one, puzzling it out). 

Crowley was another matter entirely. It frightened him, how easily his thoughts gravitated towards the demon in the night. The images formed more readily in darkness than in the light, perhaps because the unseen brims with possibility while daylight has its limits. The scene always begins in flashes: a quick smile, that unaffected laugh. Then, the picture would sharpen. All bright skin and collarbones. A figure against the door. Then closer than the door.

Aziraphale never slept for long, if he could get to sleep at all. And once awakened, any hope of returning to sleep was futile. Every waking felt final. It was as if Sleep was only passing through, and he almost _heard_ the door close behind her when she left him.

He hadn’t expected to sleep that night, not with his best and only friend pressed against his side, nose bristling against his Adam’s apple. But he had. Perhaps it was the relief of it. The closeness, once only imagined, now realized. 

When he awoke— the clock on the mantelpiece showing 3:15am— he forgot himself, for a moment. Humans were always doing that in movies. They would wake, blink back the confusion, and seem to remember where they were only after their eyes had coursed about the room. He used to think it silly and needlessly cinematic. But this…

Well, suffice it to say that the remembering was its own reward. 

He watched as Crowley shifted beside him, his arm still wrapped protectively around the angel’s middle. He looked so peaceful that Aziraphale almost felt guilty for looking. Almost. 

The Ancient Greeks have many stories about looking— about _seeing._ Men who stumbled upon goddesses in the woods, forsaking piety and etiquette for just a glimpse of their otherworldly beauty. And Crowley did look beautiful; he was beautiful. Moonlight traced the edges of his sharp features as he slept and Aziraphale wanted to follow the light with his hand, but he couldn’t. He was meant to be asleep but instead he felt as though he were being shown something— something important. He looked affectionately at what he should not have seen, and it felt like a gift.

The demon wasn’t silent, either. Little noises hummed in the back of his throat as he nestled closer, the cold autumn evening chilling his ancient bones. If Aziraphale miracled a blanket over him, it couldn’t be helped. _What was he to do, leave him to the cold? A guest in his own home?_ Absurd.

He watched as the demon’s movements began to settle. Crowley mumbled something incoherent against the collar of Aziraphale’s dress shirt and the angel began to wonder what else the demon needed, while sleeping or otherwise. What else he refused to ask for. And, perhaps more significantly, Azirphale wondered just how much he was prepared to give.

Quite a lot, he suspected.

Although he knew that sleep had left him, he closed his eyes just the same, allowing their little charade to continue. Crowley’s hair still tickled his neck and the demon smelled of coffee and cologne. Aziraphale breathed in deeply and surrendered to the darkness.

“Good morning, Angel.”

Aziraphale forced a yawn, doing his best to look sleep-weary as Crowley craned his neck to look up at him. “Good morning, my dear.”

The demon blinked, quickly removing his head from Aziraphale’s shoulder. The angel mourned its absence for only a second before he was rewarded with the sight of the demon’s disheveled hair. He must have toyed with it more than he’d realized, seeing as the back of it was fluffed and standing almost vertical. The chuckle that left his lips was quite unintentional.

“What’re you laughing at?”

“Nothing. Just your hair is a bit…” He wanted to reach out and touch it; smooth it down. But he couldn’t. _Why not?_ The night before he had had his way with it. Twirling it between his fingers and massaging the demon’s scalp. 

_So why couldn’t he do it now?_

Perhaps because he had no reason to. Crowley had slept through the night and looked anything but tired. Mission accomplished, then. He looked relaxed— happy, even. There was no need for continued closeness. No need for the way Crowley’s thigh pressed against his on the sofa; casually, as though he had forgotten about it.

Aziraphale would never be able to forget about it.

“Oh,” Crowley said, embarrassed. He ran his fingers through his hair, smoothing it down while Aziraphale watched. “I would apologize, but, I think that maybe this one was your fault. For touching it so much.”

If Crowley looked uncomfortable as he said it, he felt even worse. Like a death-row prisoner cracking a joke on his way to the chair. What else was there to do? Be _serious?_ Aziraphale had offered to help him relax, that was all. Then Crowley had gone and spent the night burrowed in his neck like some kind of pathetic puppy, afraid of the dark. He was a demon. Demons did not fear the dark. Only the light, where fear had less places to hide. 

He slipped on his sunglasses without entirely meaning to.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale told him. “I suppose I did get carried away there, didn’t I?”

“No, no. It was…fine. Good. ‘Liked it.”

A hopeful smile tugged at Aziraphale’s lips. “Really?”

“No need you going on about it.” Crowley cleared his throat loudly as he leapt from the sofa. “Right. Got any coffee?”

Aziraphale nodded and the demon was on his way. He prepared the drinks by hand, not wanting to waste a frivolous miracle or to face Aziraphale for too long without a reprieve. What if he saw? What if he looked at Crowley and _saw?_

He returned moments later with two steaming cups in hand— the angel-winged mug for Aziraphale, and a subtle black teacup for himself. The angel accepted the offering gladly, stunned by the tender domesticity of it.

“You’ll have to remember that for next time, I think,” said Crowley, feigning nonchalance, “about the hair.”

Aziraphale frowned. He felt like a maths student paralyzed by the notion that the answer in front of him had been decided in another room, in another language, and with a calculator. “I beg your pardon?”

“Well…that is, if you’d like to do this again…”

 _“Oh._ Oh, yes; yes of course.” He smiled. “Next time.”

Crowley deposited himself haphazardly on the edge of the couch, as far away from Aziraphale as he could get. The winding trail of steam from his cup fogged his glasses, but he refused to remove them. “We have to finish the movie, after all.”

“Right,” Aziraphale nodded, tentatively. “The movie.”

“It was helpful, Angel. I feel much better. Thank you.”

“I’m glad you found it helpful, my dear. And you do look better, today. Brighter.”

Brighter was perhaps the most restrained adjective Aziraphale could conjure on such short notice. Radiant was too strong. Celestial was far too serious. But the way the morning light fell around his shoulders like that…well, it just wasn’t fair.

“Brighter,” Crowley repeated. “Huh.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“No, say it.”

Crowley’s mouth opened, shut, opened again, and Aziraphale watched as he downed the remaining coffee in his cup. It made Aziraphale wince— although, perhaps demons didn’t burn so easily.

“I should go.” 

_No; no, you really shouldn’t._

Aziraphale did his best not to appear hurt. “So soon?”

“Yep. Got some things to do…things that need doing. Right.” He walked towards the door, returned, and held a closed fist awkwardly in front of Aziraphale’s face. It was a gesture he recognized— one of those new-fangled greetings Crowley had created. Something called a ‘fist-bump.’

Aziraphale indulged him.

“Right. See you tonight, Angel!”

“Tonight,” Aziraphale repeated, to no one at all.


	3. Lay Your Hands Over Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title for this chapter comes from Sheryl Crow’s “I Shall Believe.”  
> Listen to it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1v9AhF0waak
> 
> Come to me now  
> And lay your hands over me  
> Even if it's a lie  
> Say it will be alright  
> And I shall believe
> 
> I'm broken in two  
> And I know you're on to me  
> That I only come home  
> When I'm so all alone  
> But I do believe  
> …  
> Open the door  
> And show me your face tonight  
> I know it's true  
> No one heals me like you  
> And you hold the key

Perhaps you’ve heard the old wives’ tale about suppressing one’s sneezes? Apparently, after years and years of holding in the urge, it settles deep inside you until it is enough to stop your heart with the force of it, culminating in a heart attack made over the course of a suppressive lifetime.

Complete bullshit, really, and a far cry from the story Crowley had originally told. 

Originally it had been a joke told half-heartedly over a bottle of wine in a crowded bar. He never meant to imply that a misplaced sneeze could kill you. He only meant that buried things have a way of festering, that’s all. But humans are always doing that— taking things to heart.

So is he, if he’s being honest.

Because the Arrangement often required a certain level of suppression. It felt heavy, not because it was difficult, but because it was so easy. They’d laugh and bicker even as they committed celestial treason and then Aziraphale would look at him in that forgiving way and Crowley would forget himself, just for a moment. Forget that there were rules and high stakes, both of which mattered far more to the angel than they did to him. Crowley was hungry; he had been made hungry. And he didn’t know how to be anything else.

So when Aziraphale carded a hand through his hair when he’d thought Crowley had been asleep, he noticed. He recognized the want reflected back to him in that tender movement. Aziraphale’s suggestion that they ‘rest’ together felt like the new Arrangement-less Arrangement. The angel’s way of feeling out the new boundaries between them since the most decisive ones were destroyed on an air base those weeks ago. 

Little did Aziraphale know that no boundaries existed there. Crowley was willing to let him push until he reached the depths of him and perhaps even farther.

Aziraphale’s new curiosity made Crowley giddy. The memory of his hands ghosted over his skin the entire drive back to his apartment, haunting him. He pulled the car into park and ran a hand through his tousled hair, imagining that it was Aziraphale’s. He knew what it felt like, now. The feeling of those careful hands on his skin. The novelty of it made him shiver. 

Like any addict or lonely person, he needed more.

“Andy is an idiot, that’s all I’m saying.”

The credits had only been rolling for a moment before the argument began. Apparently, the narrative intricacies of _The Devil Wears Prada_ were a bit of a soft spot for the pair of them.

“How can you say that?” Aziraphale asked, shooting him an annoyed look. “She got what she wanted— a good job as a reporter, and she got her young man back.”

Crowley scoffed. “So what? He was the one who couldn’t handle her having a career that took away from _him._ To say nothing of the clothes…”

“Oh yes, because _appearances_ are so important.”

Crowley loved seeing Aziraphale annoyed. His nose wrinkled like the sleeves of his sweater and the absence of any malice in his words made Crowley want to push farther, just to see how far he could go. How long they could argue before one of them smiled.

“Well, I don’t know; they can be.” He crossed his arms defensively. “You just shouldn’t have to choose, I think. Between your work and your person. Shouldn’t have to give anything up.”

His meaning was clear: and _we_ don’t have to, anymore.

“Mmm. I do believe that’s true.”

“I know it is.”

“Do you know what else I believe to be true?”

Crowley’s heart stopped entirely— he blamed it on years of not-quite-sneezing. “What?”

The angel grinned triumphantly. “You’ve seen this film before.”

Crowley laughed— a sudden gust of air tumbling from his lungs. “Bastard.”

“It’s true, isn’t it? You have such well thought-out opinions, and you weren’t at all surprised about the Harry Potter books—”

“Hey, were you watching the film, or watching me, ‘ziraphale?”

He knew the answer. He’d seen the sideways glances cast his way from the moment he’d sat down. Then there was the constant fidgeting, like Aziraphale couldn’t quite decide where to put his hands. Crowley had had to rest his socked feet against Aziraphale’s thigh just to keep him from disappearing into his mind entirely. Not that it was a sacrifice on Crowley’s part; he’d plant himself squarely in Aziraphale’s lap if the current Arrangement was just a tad more flexible.

Aziraphale hummed. “Well…I had to know that you were enjoying it.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’d be a bad host if I made you watch something you didn’t enjoy.” 

Crowley watched as Aziraphale fiddled with his ring, twisting it around and around his finger. He was nervous. _Why was he so nervous?_

“Hey,” Crowley began, nudging Aziraphale’s thigh with his outstretched foot. “You know I’d enjoy it here even if I hated the movie, right? Even if it was…what’s that film I hate?”

He smirked. “The Sound of Music.”

 _“Right._ Even if it was Sound of Music. I’d still want to be here. I’d make fun of it constantly, and you for watching it, but I’d still enjoy being here.” He cleared his throat. “With you.”

Aziraphale nodded, and, for the first time that entire evening, faced Crowley head-on. Crowley had seen that look a thousand times. That gaze of gentle fondness that followed words and gestures that seemed too big or too monumental to fit comfortably into the repetitive script spoken between them. But this time there was something else. A softness around his eyes that wasn’t there before. If Crowley knew any better, he might even call the look apologetic, but he hadn’t the slightest idea what the angel might have to apologize for.

“Well,” Aziraphale said, looking away, “I’m glad to hear you’re not bored with me yet.”

“Not a chance.”

Aziraphale looked to the empty glasses on the table and Crowley could see their evening slipping away. The angel would take them to the kitchen and the spell would be broken the moment he left the room. Whatever ‘tonight’ meant, it was about to end.

Crowley had to do something. Only the night before, Aziraphale had changed the game between them. His invitation to ‘relax’ had given Crowley permission to cross the ancient barrier between them. Maybe Aziraphale was in need of the same invitation.

In his mind: _you go to fast for me, Crowley._

He would have to be gentle.

Using whatever bravery was still left to him, he reached for the angel. His middle and forefingers traced a line on Aziraphale’s sleeve as he whispered, “how would you feel about a nap?”

The angel smiled meekly. “That sounds nice.”

“Mhm.” Crowley felt himself smile. His hand came to rest on Aziraphale’s forearm. “I slept so well here yesterday. Who knew sleeping on a bloody couch could be so comfortable?”

Aziraphale hummed, his unreadable expression beginning to flicker.

“Wait— you didn’t sleep a wink, did you?”

Aziraphale shrugged. “I slept a bit.”

“A bit,” Crowley repeated. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“Well it was enjoyable, just the same. And besides, you’re the sleeper, not me. I haven’t quite gotten the hang of it yet.”

 _Typical Aziraphale,_ Crowley thought. _Always looking to Crowley, making sure he was content and enjoying himself before he did so himself._

He hated to think that Aziraphale had spent the night awake and watching over him, stuck there by obligation and the weight of Crowley’s head on his shoulder. But then again, maybe he didn’t mind watching over Crowley. Maybe he’d even _enjoyed_ it. 

Crowley would have, if it had been the angel sleeping next to him, and not the other way around.

“I could always teach you, if you want.”

Aziraphale squinted at him. “I didn’t realize one needed to take a class to learn how to sleep.”

Crowley shrugged. “Sometimes it can be difficult, but there are some things you can do to help you relax.”

Aziraphale sighed, looking rather tired for a celestial being. “I don’t know that I’ve ever been relaxed.”

“Of course not, you didn’t have a teacher.”

This coaxed a thin smile from his lips. A victory. “Alright then; what would you have me do?”

“For starters;” his grip on Aziraphale’s forearm tightened, grounding him; “take a deep breath.”

The angel nodded once and relented, inhaling deeply alongside Crowley. “Now I just feel ridiculous.”

“There’s step two —”

“What? Feeling ridiculous?”

“No— shutting up.”

Aziraphale chuckled at that. Crowley watched as he brought his head down, forming that soft fold of skin between his chin and his chest. He suppressed the urge to lean forward and kiss it.

“What now?” The angel asked.

Crowley leaned back in response, bringing his head to rest on the pillowed-edge of the sofa. He gestured for Aziraphale to join him and to his infinite surprise, he did. He followed him without hesitation, his legs between Crowley’s legs, his rigid back pressed against Crowley’s chest. 

Crowley’s eyes drifted shut the second Aziraphale’s curls tickled his nose. He breathed him in, as quietly as he could manage. No amount of past experience could have prepared him for this. The moment in which he found himself was so much more than the brushing of thighs and a head on a shoulder. This was consuming. Azirphale felt warm against his chest and his beige cardigan only added to the softness of him that Crowley wanted to explore with his hands.

 _One step at a time,_ he warned himself. _Tonight is about what Aziraphale needs, not you._

Crowley slung his arm around Aziraphale’s middle, stroking the fuzz of his sweater and the soft stomach beneath. 

When the angel began twisting his ring once more, Crowley covered his hand with his own.

“Fidgeting doesn’t help,” he informed him, gently prying his anxious hands apart. Crowley’s hand settled on his left one, and slipped beneath the oversized cuff of his cardigan to massage his wrist with soothing thumb strokes.

He smiled as he felt Aziraphale relax against him, just a little. His breathing becoming more rhythmic and light.

“Oh, that does feel wonderful, you know.”

“Shh.” His hand covered Aziraphale’s like a blanket as his other hand rose to his neck and began feeling out the curls there. Centuries of his life had been wasted on those curls, thinking about the texture and give of them. Like everything else about Aziraphale, they felt soft. Halos of blond cashmere that made him shiver when Crowley’s nails dragged across them, just-so.

He liked knowing that about him.

“What did I say about talking?”

Aziraphale chuckled, and Crowley felt it in his chest. 

The angel sighed as he rotated, just slightly, on Crowley’s chest. From this angle, he nestled his cheek against Crowley’s chest as he sighed. He looked like a painting in the low-light. A freckled sort-of perfection.

Crowley, on the other hand, was dangerously close to discorporation.

“Tell me what you need,” Crowley said, watching him.

What he didn’t say: _Because I’ll get it for you. Doesn’t matter what it is or how far I need to go to get it. I was a traveller, once. Before I had you. Since then I’ve just been in orbit, circling. I can be a traveller again, if you need me to be. Or I can stay here, with you. And we won’t need excuses or rules for this thing between us, and I can tell you just how strong the pull of you really is, and I won’t have to feel guilty for the way we collide into each other on your old sofa, like we’ve been doing this for years._

_Let me do this with you, for years._

“I think that what I _need_ …is to buy a bed,” he mumbled, as if the phrase itself were not earth-shattering.

The demon smiled, relief threatening to spill from his eyes. “Then I’ll help you find one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Sorry for the late update— I’ve been pretty sick this week, but I’m happy to finally be getting back on track. Luckily, I’ve had a week to dwell on Aziraphale, Crowley, and their education in “Netflix and chill” (almost). 
> 
> I’m so soft for this dynamic, it’s unbelievable. ^-^


	4. Running into Fires

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bonus chapter, since the world is on fire and we all deserve some fluff <3 <3 Enjoy!

Here’s a secret about Aziraphale: He’s never been selfless. Not even close.

When he was an angel— at least, one among many— it had been his _want_ that set him apart from his contemporaries. His appreciation for literature, art, and cuisine was considered unbefitting to his status as a Principality, and his longing for these things marked him as an aberration to an otherwise predictable pattern. Angels like Gabriel, Michael, and Bellerophon were all paragons of celestial authority. They seemed to dwell on a higher sphere than Aziraphale, and only regarded him when they were peering down from their self-appointed high ground. 

Before he became acquainted with each of their (admittedly similar) personalities, Aziraphale had believed that they all looked the same. Each of them an embodiment of the same authoritative force spread evenly amongst its vessels. The other angels patrolled Heaven’s halls with a fearlessness which Aziraphale could never imagine for himself. They were completely untouchable.

Perhaps they were untouchable because they had never been touched by anything, emotionally or physically.

Aziraphale was fortunate enough to experience both, making him the luckiest heretic he knew. 

The clock on the mantel read 9:12am, and the fire still burned in the fireplace without having to be told. It was the longest he’d ever managed to sleep, with Crowley’s arm still holding him all those hours later. It made him smile to know that even in sleep, Crowley’s hands never wavered.

He craned his neck for a glimpse of the demon, whose head lay back on the pillow, giving Aziraphale a view of his sinuous neck and his wild, tousled hair. The low lighting of the shop traced his features with a golden glow, highlighting the jut of his cheekbones and the russet tones of his hair. It reminded Aziraphale of the church all those years ago, the night Crowley waltzed back into his life just in time to save it. He could almost smell the smouldering embers of the church even now, as he watched Crowley’s face illuminated by firelight. 

In fact, perhaps it wasn’t the angel’s memory, but Crowley, who smelled of fire. Not of a burning sanctuary, but something closer to a bonfire. The scent was gentle and complemented Crowley’s cologne nicely, but it was still there, nonetheless. 

_Huh._ It occurred to Aziraphale then that Crowley had been running into fire for years now. First the church, then the bookshop. They’d never discussed the incident apart from Adam’s correcting of it, but Aziraphale knew it had disturbed him greatly. That day in the bar…

He closed his eyes. He hated remembering that part. The way Crowley’s face, ash-streaked and pale, had broken right in front of him. In a thousand little ways, Crowley was always breaking. He was quite good at it, in fact. Aziraphale had grown accustomed to his tells; the stuttering and anxious movements that betrayed his discomfort. He recognized them without meaning to, but he’d never seen them devour him so completely until that day.

So yes, perhaps it is right that Crowley still smells of ember. _How many fires does one have to run into before they become a part of you?_

Every time the fires (whether natural or Hellfire) had come for Aziraphale, Crowley had been brave enough for the both of them. Now, with Crowley’s soft breathing ruffling Aziraphale’s hair, it was time for the angel turn to summon some courage of his own.

He cleared his throat, waiting for Crowley to stir.

The demon let out a muffled snore and slept on.

Aziraphale blinked, not knowing what to do. As usual, he knew what he _wanted_ to do. He wanted to kiss him. To take the demon’s face in his hands and kiss his lips so that affection was the first thing he felt upon waking.

But he couldn’t do that. He’d been selfish for far too long. In truth, he didn’t even know what Crowley wanted— he’d never had the courage to ask him. _Did he want to tread lightly and maintain the easy friendship between them? Or was he like Aziraphale, reluctant to close the door behind him when he left?_

It pained Aziraphale, not knowing. It hurt almost as much as knowing. Knowing that Crowley wanted something else, something…quieter, than this. Quieter than the voice that shouted from the back of Aziraphale’s mind to _touch, touch, touch!_

Leaning upwards ever so slightly, Aziraphale turned his head, letting the topmost part of his curls caress Crowley’s chin. (He’d had his fingers in them only hours before— what would it take for him to do that in the daylight?)

“G’morning, Angel.” 

A pair of golden eyes blinked open, a lazy hand dragging across them as Crowley reached for his sunglasses. His voice was sleep-heavy and Aziraphale thought it sounded strong and soft all at once; an uncompromising sort of kindness.

“Good morning, my dear.”

Crowley sucked in a breath, as if stopped in his tracks by Aziraphale’s endearing term. The angel was always calling him ‘dear,’ but this time felt different. The demon stared down at Aziraphale keenly, as if waiting for something to happen. 

_It must be the proximity,_ thought Aziraphale. The word stung him, too. It felt out of place, using a term of endearment when their hearts were this close. An abrupt sort of softness— the kind that cuts to the bone.

He felt the demon stiffen beneath him, as if he were preparing to bolt to the door.

Aziraphale should show him mercy, he knew. But he was feeling selfish that morning, so he did nothing of the sort.

Instead he asked: “Are you desperate to begin the day, or would you prefer to stay here a few moments more?”

He practically _felt_ Crowley’s heartbeat running away from him. “Uhh— well, er— no, I don’t have anywhere in particular to be. ‘m free.”

“Excellent.”

Aziraphale settled his head back onto Crowley’s chest, politely refusing to acknowledge the frantic rhythm of his heart. The demon sighed at the contact, bringing his own arm down to rest over Aziraphale’s chest, enveloping him from behind.

It had sounded like a little thing, in his mind— asking Crowley to stay with him like this. A tentative little act, like dipping your toes into a shallow pool. But in practice it felt more like leaping into the ocean. It felt shocking and new and the light through the curtains was reflecting on the wall in strange patterns as though they themselves were underwater, looking up. Crowley’s arm around him was a life preserver and an anchor all at once. Both of them in over their heads, unaware of what to do next.

Crowley cleared his throat, surfacing. “Did you sleep well, Angel?”

“I certainly did,” he admitted, trying to decide how deep he was prepared to dive. “It was easier this time.”

“I’m glad.”

Aziraphale bristled against the demon’s chest. “Thank you.”

“What for?”

_For everything, maybe. For holding me in the darkness and not letting go. Most of all, for giving me something to hold onto._

“For being here.” For being here with _me._

Crowley nodded, in what Aziraphale hoped was a sign of understanding. 

“I suppose you’ll be wanting to get breakfast soon,” Crowley remarked, his thumb tapping gently against Aziraphale’s chest.

“Well, I was thinking I could whip something up for us.”

“You cook?”

“I certainly endeavour to, yes.”

Crowley chuckled. It reverberated through Aziraphale's chest until he was smiling too. “I don’t believe it for a second. You’re definitely the ordering-in-restaurants-type, not one to get your hands dirty.”

“I’ll have you know I’ve created many excellent dishes in my time, thank you very much.”

“Many?”

“Several,” Aziraphale conceded.

“Mhm. Crepes?”

He frowned. “Best to leave art to the artists, my dear.”

“Of course.”

And then Crowley was laughing again, and his Adam’s apple was so close and Aziraphale wanted nothing more than to lean forward and _kiss it._ To kiss Crowley until he was laughing for an entirely different reason.

His hand was on Crowley before he could think, trailing a delicate line with his index finger down the curve of his neck and falling away at his shirt collar. The demon gasped, spellbound, as Aziraphale repeated the simple action. From his chin to his collar, tracing a path. 

_It’s hard to breathe properly,_ thought Aziraphale, _this far beneath the waves._

Aziraphale stared at his hand and Crowley did too. Crowley, who walked— no, _ran_ — into fires with open arms, was here with him, holding him like he was something precious. He looked terrified and reverent all at once and Aziraphale realized that Crowley was the bravest person he ever knew. His particular brand of bravery was not without fear. He didn’t belong among the ranks of Heaven’s fearless and faceless warriors. No, he was something else entirely. Crowley knew fear intimately and faced it just the same. He felt the demon’s pulse racing and knew that he was fearful, even now. 

_Perhaps fear does not make us weak,_ Aziraphale thought, _but fortunate. Fear is nothing more than the possibility of loss. When we don’t fear the thing in front of us, but the losing of it._

Crowley was afraid and so was he, but perhaps in a survivable way.

Crowley was not fearless and untouchable, he was _good,_ and goodness has a way of getting hurt. And besides, if Aziraphale were to have his way, the demon would not spend another day untouched.

His fingers fell away from the demon’s throat and Crowley shifted. The hand on the angel’s chest stiffened and Aziraphale once again felt an ocean looming before him. 

The bookshop itself seemed to be holding its breath.

“Angel, I —”

A flurry of knocks sounded at the door.

Crowley nearly jumped out of his skin. “Ugh— shouldn’t you get that?”

Aziraphale froze, his hand just inches from Crowley’s neck. “Just ignore it. You were saying?”

 _Knock, knock knock._

“Hello? Mr. Fell? Your door is locked!”

Crowley groaned. “She’s a regular Sherlock Holmes, sounds like.”

“Ignore her, my dear; customers never stay for long.”

Apparently, this one was the exception to the rule. The knocking only grew louder and more persistent. 

Wishing he’d managed to hold onto that flaming sword, Aziraphale excused himself from the room to answer the determined woman. 

Reconsidering every decision he’d made from Creation until now, Crowley waited on the couch, scrubbing his hands down his face as he strained to listen as Aziraphale politely informed the woman that the shop was still closed, contrary to the Store Hours sign in the window.

The voices floated in from the hall:

“But it says you’re open today from nine until—”

“—And yet, we are closed. Thank you.”

“But—!”

“Have a nice day.”

The door slammed decisively behind him.

“So sorry, my dear, where were we?” Aziraphale returned to find Crowley smirking at him from the edge of the room. “Whatever are you looking at me like that for?”

He shrugged. “No reason. ‘Just like it when you’re flustered.”

The angel huffed in response, hastily smoothing his untucked shirt. “I am _not_ flustered.”

“You _are._ I don’t know that I’ve ever heard you be that rude to a customer before.”

“Yes, well, it was called for, I can assure you. That woman was _very_ pushy.”

“A regular Karen, then.”

“I’m not sure about that; I didn’t ask for her name.”

Crowley smirked, retreating towards the door. “Alright then, Angel. You win. I really ought to be going, though.”

Aziraphale’s face fell. “So soon?”

“Soon? I’ve been here the whole night.”

The ocean was back, and this time, it was carrying him out to sea. 

“Is that so bad?”

“No.” Crowley answered, taking a step closer. “No, it’s not.”

“Well,” he swallowed, “when will I see you again?”

“How’s Friday night? We can watch that show I’ve been telling you about.”

Aziraphale nodded, pretending to remember which of the many television programs Crowley might be referencing. “Right.”

Crowley hesitated, fidgeting with his coat as he put it on. His eyes kept shifting from Aziraphale, to the door, and back again. “We’re alright, aren’t we, Angel? You’re not mad at me for leaving?”

“How could I be mad at you?” _It was my fault; I’ve always been the selfish one._

“Dunno. You just seem a bit…upset.”

“I’m fine, dear. I just…I feel like I might have missed something, when we were interrupted earlier.”

Crowley shook his head, wearing a smile that looked nothing like his own. “Nothing important.”

“Oh.”

The demon’s expression faltered as he inched closer, a brazen look behind his timid eyes. He reached for Aziraphale’s hand and gave it a quick squeeze before retreating towards the door.

“See you Friday, Angel.” He paused as he stood in the threshold. “You’re going to love it.”

“I’m sure I will,” Aziraphale replied.

And he was; he was sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!! <3


	5. Burnt Hands Linger Longer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song for Chapter 5: Where's My Love (Acoustic Version) by SYML
> 
> Listen here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b3LJlZBWI8w
> 
> A heads-up: This chapter includes some _extremely_ mild spoilers for The Haunting of Bly Manor. Again, they are extremely mild, and do not reveal any insight into the overall plot line and ending. 
> 
> Enjoy!

“Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. _Shit!”_

The Bentley whipped through central London like a torrent as its driver realized (not for the first time) that he did not know how to swim.

You’d think he would have learned by now, considering he’d always prided himself on being somewhat of a survivalist. He was resourceful; able to fall head-first into situations and slither out of them by the means of his own cunning. But still, he’d never bothered to learn how to swim. He always thought he would get around to it one day, but such a propitious day has yet to come.

Destruction, though…destruction is something he has intimate knowledge of. After finding himself on the receiving end of it, he turned it a profession. He wore the damage done to him like a mantel. Demons were creatures of chaos and ruin, and although Crowley much preferred inconvenience to annihilation, he knew what was expected of him. And what he sometimes expected from himself.

Laughter and tears were duelling it out in his heart as he drove, pretending not to hear the clamour of clanging swords from deep within him.

He was drowning, obviously, but that fact said more about the surf than it did about him.

He returned home late in the day, collapsing onto his bed the moment he stepped through the door. If he couldn’t see the angel until Friday, then he was determined to sleep until then.

He set his alarm and pulled the blinds, but sleep did not come.

Behind his eyes were glowing vignettes painted gold and brown; a sofa and a bookshelf and a friend. The kind of friend who looks too long.

He touched a finger to his throat, and then another, dragging the nails over his skin. _What had Aziraphale seen in that moment? If they weren’t interrupted, would he still be at the bookshop, even now?_

He’d wanted to say something. He had an answer in his throat when Aziraphale touched him, but it was a thousand miles away by now.

It probably would have ruined him, whatever it was. Destruction had always come more easily to him than warmth. Besides, life could always be rebuilt once ruin ceased. Ash can only burn for so long before it settles and green leaves spring up in the broken places. But warmth… _real_ warmth tends to linger. A man who burns his hand in an open flame regards even votives cautiously. Burnt hands remember.

Still, the weight against his chest had felt nice, even as it pulled him down.

“Stupid, _stupid!”_ He scolded himself, glaring at the reflection in his bedroom mirror.

_Ping!_

He retrieved his phone just in time to see a new message appear from Aziraphale; a screenshot of an online order from a mattress warehouse.

 _Since when did Aziraphale know how to take screenshots?_ was Crowley’s first reaction.

His second: _The angel may or may not be inviting me to go to bed with him._

He burrowed deeper under the blanket.

Sleep most certainly did not come.

“The Haunting of…what, exactly?”

 _“Bly Manor,_ Angel.”

The teasing portion of the evening had been dragging on for some time now, the awkwardness of their previous exchange behind them. Aziraphale’s hands had brushed against Crowleys exactly three times since he’d arrived. Once at the door, and twice more as they distributed the wine into glasses. Although he’d been standing on his own for several minutes, Crowley’s heart was still rebelling against him, touch or no touch.

He opened the laptop and began searching for Netflix. “I told you, it’s a new one. I know you haven’t seen it.”

The angel nodded along, thoughtfully swirling his wine. “Because it’s on the Netflix?”

Crowley sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face. “How many times do I have to tell you that it’s Netflix? Just Netflix! No _the.”_

“At least one more, I imagine.”

He tapped Crowley’s arm as he passed, taking the bowl of popcorn with him into the next room.

Crowley looked at his arm, feeling as though he’d missed something. That was the fourth time Aziraphale had touched him since he’d arrived at the shop an hour ago. Notably, it was anything but accidental. This wasn’t a shoulders-brushing-as-you-enter-the-Ritz moment. Nor was it tied to any exchange of materials between them. The touch felt deliberate. (They were all beginning to feel deliberate, if he was bring honest.)

Aziraphale wasn’t…he really wasn’t _flirting_ with him, was he?

The angel turned back to look at him. “Aren’t you coming?”

“Yes, yes.” He grabbed the laptop and scurried to catch up. “‘course I am.”

Aziraphale hesitated at the couch, eyes glancing to the staircase behind them. “Um, I probably ought to mention that I…that the new bed came today and, well…if you think you’d be more comfortable—”

The demon nodded as passionately as it is possible to nod. “Lead the way, Angel.”

Crowley had never been upstairs before, though he’d often wondered about it. He’d figured that the angel used the space to store his wardrobe (which was extensive, no doubt) as well as any excess literature. Perhaps the books he loved the most were up there; the ones he’d never dare to part with and now kept at his bedside. Perhaps there was a little alcove tucked away somewhere with a leather reading chair and a pair of spectacles, like the quiet abode of a bookkeeper from a hundred years ago. Like Aziraphale himself.

He found that he had been right about the books. A narrow staircase bent towards two doors: a bedroom, and a bathroom. The hallway itself was lined with a low book shelf littered with books.

One look at the clawfoot bathtub hidden away behind the first door and Crowley was a goner. His head suddenly filled with images of wine and bubbles and a swath of wet skin and a smile. He felt like an antiques dealer as he wondered how old it was and how often it was used. He wondered if it smelled of Aziraphale— that subtle fragrance of chai and chocolates.

He must have made a sound because Aziraphale was looking at him.

“Are you quite alright, my dear?”

He flashed him the harshest glare of which he was capable. “‘M fine. Just fine. Tickety-boo.”

At the end of the hall was a bedroom with three high windows and a reading chair between them. The chair was not leather but suede, and a single book lay face-down upon it, halfway read. Aziraphale rushed over to it, closing it properly and pressing a bookmark inside.

“I’m not usually so careless,” he said, moving to put away the book. “Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Crowley said, reaching out a hand. He flipped the book over to find Walt Whitman’s name scrawled in golden font. “Whitman?”

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. “Do you not like him?”

“No, he’s…” (any opinion Crowley might have formed about the poet was immediately lost, his brain threatening to short-circuit for the third time that day), “nah, he’s good. Fine. Just didn’t know you liked poetry.”

Aziraphale nodded, reaching to take the book back. Crowley made sure his fingers grazed Aziraphale’s as he surrendered it. He could be deliberate, too.

“I do, sometimes. When the moment calls for it.”

 _Was this one of those moments?_ Crowley wondered. _Is my presence here as paradigm shifting for you as it is for me?_

Before he could finish that thought, his eyes landed on the one part of the room he’d been neglecting thus far: the bed.

Stationed next to the chair and between two night tables was a white, queen-sized mattress barren of any pillows or linens. It looked so out of place among the rustic oakwood furniture that it might as well have been dropped out of the sky. Crowley burst into laughter at the sight of it.

“What’s so funny?” Aziraphale asked, looking as though he was unsure whether to laugh or pout. “Did I do something wrong?”

“I can see you’ve bought the mattress, but what about the rest of it?”

“The rest of it?” Aziraphale repeated.

“Yes! The blankets, the headboard, the…pillows.”

“Oh.”

“What, haven’t you seen a bed before?”

“Of course I have! It’s just…well is all that really necessary? It seems so frivolous.”

“It is necessary, Angel, if you want to relax.” Crowley informed him. “You at least need a blanket.”

Azirphale shrugged. “It’s not that cold in here.”

“Ok, well _I_ definitely need a blanket, then. I’m not as warm as you are, remember?”

 _Especially now,_ he thought. The wind had been picking up the last few days, dragging the temperature down with it. Even for November, it was oddly cold. Like Winter was treading beyond her accustomed boundaries. Crowley had spent the greater part of the day in his apartment, struggling to fix his radiator without relying on a miracle. The snake-like aspect of his spirit was strong. As the days went by, it propelled him towards sunbeams, fireplaces, and Aziraphale, whose skin and personality felt equally like light.

“Oh. _Oh.” _Aziraphale’s eyes widened. He was always fussing about Crowley’s warmth— telling him to wear added layers and not to linger too long in the elements. The fireplace had already been burning when he’d arrived. “Why don’t we bring up the blankets from downstairs, hm? And perhaps some pillows?”__

__The demon chucked the laptop onto the bed as he bounded towards the backstairs. “On it.”_ _

__Together, they retrieved two blankets and some extra pillows from the shop. One blanket covered the mattress (as Crowley instructed), and the other, Crowley pulled around the two of them. They had changed clothes as well— Crowley retrieved from his bag the black silk pyjamas he’d brought from home, and Aziraphale now donned a tartan pyjama set which Crowley would have mocked mercilessly had he not looked so endearing in it. They positioned themselves shoulder-to-shoulder with the food in Aziraphale’s lap and the laptop in Crowley’s._ _

__Crowley pressed play on the first episode, and reached for the popcorn._ _

__His hand knocked against Aziraphale’s and the angel gasped in surprise. “My dear, you are _freezing.”__ _

__“It’s nothing.” He knew he wouldn’t be cold for much longer._ _

__Aziraphale ignored him completely, as Crowley knew he would. Taking Crowley’s left hand in his, he brought it up to his lips and blew. He rubbed the warmth back into Crowley’s bones while the demon tried to focus on the intro without discorporating. In a matter of seconds Aziraphale’s lip had brushed against his hand and Crowley had memorized it, tucking it away for later._ _

__It had been centuries since this had happened the first time; back when Russian Tsars held palace feasts as the snow piled up outside…_ _

__That drowning feeling returned as Crowley watched the care being done._ _

__The angel finished with one hand, and reached for the other._ _

__“Uh, thanks. Thanks, Angel.”_ _

__“Of course.”_ _

__They fell silent, after that. Sitting side-by-side, they watched the screen and waited for something to happen. It was a difficult thing to break, the quiet of the house. Crowley kept peering about the room from behind his glasses. He read the spines of all the books on the side table (thanking the powers of the universe that none of them were written by Oscar Wilde). He looked at the beige curtains, the fading light of evening reaching through them to warm the edge of the bed. He wondered what the space would look like in the morning._ _

_Would the light reach farther? Would it illuminate the angel’s face as he slept, gifting him a halo without him having to ask?_

__It made him giddy to think that his question would soon be answered._ _

__Then, the haunting began._ _

__He felt Aziraphale stiffen beside him where their shoulders met, his hands scrunching into fists at the first sight of a spirit in the manor._ _

__“You alright, Angel?”_ _

__He said nothing, staring at the screen._ _

__“It’s not _that_ bad, Angel. I picked a tame one just for you.”_ _

__“I know that _spookiness_ might be something to which you are accustomed, but…”_ _

__“First of all, I have never used the word_ 'spookiness' _ever in my life. Let’s start there.”__

__Aziraphale sighed, doing his best to appear put-out. “Whatever this is, it is a bit unnerving, you have to admit.”_ _

__Crowley paused the show, waiting. “Would you like to watch something else?”_ _

__The angel shook his head. “No, I do want to watch this with you, I just— I know it’s silly…”_ _

__“It’s fine,” Crowley told him, rubbing a slow circle on on the elbow of Aziraphale’s sweater. “We can do something else.”_ _

__“How about instead…” Aziraphale wound his right arm around Crowley’s with a grip that was firm but not unpleasant. “Is this alright?_ _

__“Of course it is.” Crowley mumbled, tucking away a silent scream between his ribs. “Whatever you want.”_ _

__They continued on like this for some time, binging episodes as Aziraphale’s grip grew stronger until Crowley began to watch the angel more than the action unfolding in front of them. He liked the feeling of Aziraphale’s strong hands on him, seeking reassurance. He liked taking care of him— knowing that he could. When the angel’s breathing grew unsteady, Crowley entwined their fingers together, rubbing soothing shapes into the crest of Aziraphale’s thumb and forefinger. It seemed to help, although whom it helped the more, he couldn’t say. As the storyline grew darker and Aziraphale’s grip tightened, Crowley accepted the head on his shoulder as a sign that the angel trusted him. That he sought comfort in his arms. It felt good, having someone to guard— something other than your own heart._ _

__And Aziraphale liked the storyline, he really did. Particularly all the love woven into it, from all angles. He particularly enjoyed the audacious gardener._ _

__He gestured to the screen as the gardener and the au pair exchanged a knowing look; a kiss shared between them, and many more to come._ _

__“They remind me of how we used to be.” Aziraphale stated plainly._ _

__It was Crowley’s turn to freeze. “I think you and I have some _very_ different memories of the way we used to be.”_ _

__Aziraphale scoffed. “I wasn’t talking about _that,_ dear. I only meant that one is a gardener, and the other one an au pair.”_ _

__“Ah.” Said Crowley, only marginally relieved. “Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis, you mean.”_ _

__“Yes. Although I’m certain that you would have made a far better gardener than I ever did.”_ _

__“I agree; I was a far better gardener than you.”_ _

__Aziraphale chuckled. “Well you needn’t admit to it so _readily.”__ _

__“‘s true. I had to go behind you and fix all your mistakes after getting Warlock to bed. Do you know how many miracles it took to improve the state of your radishes?”_ _

__Aziraphale hummed in agreement, swiping a thumb over the inside of Crowley’s wrist. “You were an excellent nanny, too.”_ _

__“I was__ _alright.”_

__“Nonsense. The boy really looked up to you. Although, if we are speaking on aesthetic terms alone, I would have to say that you remind me of the gardener far more than the au pair, in this particular television show.”_ _

__Crowley grinned. “And the au pair reminds me of you.”_ _

__“Does she? Why?”_ _

__Crowley swallowed, feeling suddenly trapped. He couldn’t say it; he just couldn’t._ _

_Because you’re gorgeous, like her. And you have blond hair that ruffles easily and you’re always looking out for everyone else, particularly me. And we weren’t introduced, either. We just knew each other, implicitly. We just knew._

__Instead, he simply shrugged. “Well, if I’m a character, then you’re a character, too. You don’t get to leave me alone in a story you’re not in.”_ _

__Aziraphale bristled at that, nudging closer. “Well, I appreciate the sentiment, dear boy, but I’m not sure that I see the resemblance.”_ _

__Before they knew it, it was episode five. It was episode five and Crowley was dying, just a bit, as Aziraphale clicked the ‘skip intro’ button. Crowley had seen this episode before, you see, and he knew how it would go._ _

__When the gardener took the au pair in her arms, kissing her passionately, Crowley thought he was going to discorporate. He felt Aziraphale stiffen beside him, not as he had earlier, when he’d latched onto Crowley’s arm at the first sight of supernatural trouble. This was different. Like the air had been sucked from his lungs._ _

__“Still remind you of us?” He’d meant for it to be a joke, but it had little effect on the angel, who stared in awe at the screen, ignoring him._ _

__Luckily, they didn’t have to wait long before another of the many Bly Manor ghouls returned to the screen, and Aziraphale’s grip on Crowley’s arm tightened once more._ _

__The roll of credits came as a relief._ _

__“So?” Crowley asked, “another one?”_ _

__“I would love to, my dear, but I think I’ll have to turn in soon.”_ _

__“So,” Crowley began, setting the laptop aside, “I’ve converted you, then? To sleeping?”_ _

__Aziraphale smiled, letting go of Crowley’s arm for the first time that night. “Perhaps; or perhaps I simply need a break from the_ spookiness _of it all.”__

__“Alright.”_ _

__“The_ ghouls.”_

__“Yes, you’ve made your point.”_ _

__Aziraphale smiled, staring at him. Minutes fell around them like snow as they stared, each unsure how to move, how to breathe, in bed together with no more television shows or snarky comments to hide behind. It was just a heap of blankets, a nervous touch, and two divers struggling to tread water on dry land._ _

__“Are you feeling tired?”_ _

__Crowley shook his head; _no.__ _

__“Oh.”_ _

__Crowley’s mind was screaming at him:_ But I still want to be held by you! I still want to feel warm and safe, I just want you to ask me the right question. I want everything we do to be deliberate, so ask me. Ask me to confess._

__The church is big on confessions— Aziraphale ought to be well versed in them._ _

_Admit it! _He wanted to yell._ Just look me in the eyes and tell me that you feel the same. That you never bought this bed for sleeping, you bought it for wakefulness._

_Please, wake up._

__“Your glasses,” Aziraphale mumbled._ _

__“Er—what? What about them?”_ _

__“Aren’t you going to take them off?”_ _

__Crowley thought about it for a moment. He could get away with the charade on the couch, where the company of shelving and workspaces lent him some semblance of formality. But here, in bed after dark…it seemed ridiculous to still be wearing them. Black glasses and silk pyjamas made for an odd pairing._ _

__“Uh…why?”_ _

__Aziraphale frowned, quirking his head as if in consideration. “Won’t you be uncomfortable?”_ _

__Crowley shook his head. He felt like a swordsman being asked to surrender his weapon at the gates._ But why? What war was he facing?_

__Aziraphale said nothing for a long moment, his fingers softening their grip on Crowley’s arm._ _

__When he spoke again, his voice was lowered to a whisper. “Would you do it for me, then? If I asked you?”_ _

__Crowley felt himself nodding before he’d even processed the request._ _

_I don’t know how to deny you. It’s a skill I was never taught._

__“Can I…?”_ _

__Crowley heard the question mark that coloured the angel’s voice. “Why?”_ _

__“Because I like to see you, when I look at you.”_ And of course, because I want to see you looking back at me._

__Crowley said nothing, but inclined his head, granting permission._ _

__Aziraphale’s hands rose and gently removed the pair of sunglasses, setting them down on the bedside table for safekeeping. He looked back at Crowley, drinking him in. He always thought the demon looked younger without his dark frames, and he did his best to flit his eyes away quickly so as not to alert Crowley to his staring. He’d always thought the demon’s yellow eyes looked like lanterns— beacons in the night. “There, now. Isn’t that better?”_ _

__Crowley nodded, eyes still focused on the blanket that covered him. When the angel said nothing further, he met his gaze once more and was struck silent by the look of him. His hair was ruffled from the pillow and his night shirt was buttoned incorrectly. A slight smile ghosted over his lips as he looked over at Crowley with far more interest than he had devoted to their Netflix marathon and perhaps to anything, ever._ _

__The demon blinked up at him, spellbound._ _

__“Shall we?” Aziraphale asked._ _

__Crowley nodded, pulling back the covers. He shimmied down the mattress until he was settled on his side of the bed, precisely where he did not want to be._ _

__“Get over here, you wily serpent. I know you’re cold.”_ _

__“Shut up,” he responded, inching closer._ _

__At first it was just their arms that touched. He thought Aziraphale might take his arm again, but he did’t. Instead the angel raised his arm overhead, inviting Crowley to take up residence on his chest. He accepted the offer gladly, until they were pressed hip-to-hip and Crowley’s foot overlapped with Aziraphale’s ankle. The angel chuckled at the russet hairs now tickling his nose, and padded them down with his hand, fingers lingering at the edges of Crowley’s vision._ _

___So, this is it,_ thought Crowley. _This is what it feels like to come home.__ _

__"Is this better than the couch, then?"_ _

__Crowley said nothing, but brought a hand up to rest on Aziraphale's shoulder as he nestled closer._ _

__The angel smirked knowingly. "I'll take that as a yes, then."_ _

__Crowley's eyes fluttered closed once more as Aziraphale pressed a hand to his head and began to rake his fingers through his hair. "Get some rest, my dear."_ _

__He couldn't quite tell, but Crowley was fairly certain that the kiss to his temple was as real as the hand in his hair even as his dreams pulled him under._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The vibe for Crowley this chapter is 100% that Onion headline: "Local man believes relationship is definitely hurdling towards something." lol.
> 
> Also I've been waiting so long to work Bly Manor into a fic! The series is so lovely, and has some serious Aziraphale/Crowley vibes. (Not going to lie, this chapter was almost titled "Perfectly Splendid.")
> 
> Thanks for reading! I know it was a long one <3


	6. Light and Shadow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter also comes with a song: This Year's Love, by David Gray
> 
> Listen here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NzlGZDzdsPg
> 
> "This year's love had better last,  
> Heaven knows it's high time.  
> I've been waiting on my own too long  
> And when ya hold me like you do,  
> It feels so right oh now,  
> I start to forget how my heart gets torn  
> When that hurt gets thrown  
> Feeling like you can't go on."

“Mmm.” Crowley moaned in his sleep, turning away from Aziraphale and curling into a bundle of blankets atop his wrinkled pillow.

“Everything alright?” Aziraphale asked, his mind still sleep-heavy and gripped by unconsciousness. 

Crowley did not respond in words, but groaned once more; louder, this time. His hands curled into his chest as he burrowed down into his pillow, muttering nonsensically.

Aziraphale felt paralyzed. He’d never had a bad dream before (or rather, any that he could remember), but he knew this must be what was happening to Crowley. 

_What should he do? Wake him up and rescue him from it? Or let him sleep, perchance he might forget his fear come the dawn?_

When Crowley moved again, a sound resembling a sob fell from his lips, and Aziraphale made his choice.

“Crowley? Crowley, dear, wake up.” He placed a hand on the demon’s temple, smoothing back the matted hair that shrouded his eyes. It felt wet in his hands. He moved to rub his back and found his silk pyjamas similarly damp; he must have sweat right through them.

“Crowley?” 

The demon opened his eyes and instinctively leapt back from Aziraphale’s touch as though it had burned him.

“Oh— I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” he panted, his anxious fingers carding though his hair at warp speed. “’s not your fault, Angel. It happens sometimes.”

Aziraphale’s heart ached for all of the ‘sometimes;’ the ones he hadn’t been there for. “Does this happen very often?”

The demon shrugged. “Sort of.”

Aziraphale eyed him, wanting to reach out and offer comfort but fearful that Crowley would shrink away, retreating from him again. “Would you like to tell me about it?”

“No.”

Aziraphale painted on a smile. “Right. Of course.”

“Ugh— no, it’s just.” Crowley threw his hands up in defeat, groaning loudly at the concept of surrender. “It’s really not that big a deal, Angel.”

“But you’re crying, my dear.”

“I am _not_ crying.”

He was. Just a little, even as he denied it.

“Is it…Heaven? Or Hell? Because if it is, that would be perfectly normal, you know. I worry about them sometimes myself.” He took Crowley’s hand in his, entwining their fingers together. “More than I’d care to admit, in fact.”

Crowley shook his head, his breathing beginning to even out. “It’s not that. It’s just…”

Aziraphale, he knew, was watching him. Those blue eyes that saw only light even in the shadows. _‘Shadow is nothing more than the presence of light,’_ he’d told him once. It had seemed like an epiphany then, this simple little phrase spoken over tea and croissants. Crowley wasn’t accustomed to paradigm shifts, but when he did experience them, Aziraphale always seemed to be at their centre.

 _How do humans do this?_ Crowley wondered. _It looks so easy in the movies— baring your soul. In practice it feels like a loss. Like your soul is too big for your mouth but you have to speak it anyway._

Do you know the story of the Argonauts? How these mythic men of Ancient Greece were said to have been forged by dragon’s teeth buried in the earth? That’s how Crowley felt whenever someone asked whether or not he was ok. Like he was made of teeth and earth and hadn’t the slightest idea how to feel or speak or breathe. Like the soul of him was marrow torn from a beast. He wasn’t meant to be held like this. He wasn’t meant to be looked at like some fragile, precious thing.

 _‘Don’t you know,’_ he wanted to ask Aziraphale, _‘that I’m not meant to be looked at like this?’_

He took a deep breath, and dove. “I dreamt that I was alone.”

Aziraphale hummed empathetically as he began rubbing warmth into Crowley’s hand. “But you’re _not,_ my dear. I’m with you.”

“I know. Just a nightmare. Sometimes it happens…I dream that I’m in Rome, or Egypt…or in my apartment, and I can’t find you — or anyone,” he added hastily. “The streets are all barren and there’s nowhere for me to go.”

“That sounds horrible.” 

“It is,” he agreed. “But it’s fine.”

“It’s far from _fine,”_ Aziraphale insisted, “why do you keep saying that?”

_Because isn’t it just a little bit true? I’m here with you now, but tomorrow I’ll be on my own again._

Crowley just shrugged, wiping at his nose with his sleeve. “It just happens, Angel. Nothing you can do about it.”

“Except that there is,” Aziraphale whispered.

“What?” Asked Crowley, though it came out like a prayer.

Aziraphale took a deep breath, and began:

“I’ll come when thou art saddest,  
Laid alone in the darkened room;  
When the mad day’s mirth has vanished,  
And the smile of joy is banished,

I’ll come when the heart’s real feeling  
Has entire, unbiased sway,  
And my influence o’er thee stealing  
Grief deepening, joy congealing,  
Shall bear thy soul away.

Listen! ’tis just the hour,  
The awful time for thee:  
Dost thou not feel upon thy soul  
A flood of strange sensations roll,  
Forerunners of a sterner power,  
Heralds of me?”

“Dickenson?” Crowley sniffed, unable to look at him.

“Brontë,” Aziraphale replied. “Emily Brontë.”

“Huh. I think I remember reading that one.”

“I didn’t know you liked poetry,” remarked Aziraphale, tucking a loose strand of hair behind Crowley’s ear.

“And I didn’t know that you did either, until yesterday.”

“True enough.” Aziraphale sighed, sounding much older than he was, even for him. “It amazes me, how many things there still are for me to learn about you.”

“Me too.” Curiosity coloured Crowley’s voice. “‘s kind of exciting though, isn’t it?”

He grinned. “Yes. Yes, it is.”

The silence stretched around them as it does anyone who is held in the night. A sort of ethereal gentleness coloured the curtains red before rosy-fingered Dawn had even thought of rising. Time, it seemed, had left them in the kindest possible way.

Minutes passed before Aziraphale found the courage to speak again. “What is your favourite poem, my dear?”

No hesitation slowed Crowley’s answer. “Catullus 85.”

“Ah.” Catullus— of course. The poem seemed to read in Crowley’s voice, even before Aziraphale knew of its significance.

Crowley’s lips parted to make room for the ancient words: “Odi et amo. Quare id faciam, fortasse requiris. Nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior.” 

Aziraphale supplied the translation: “I hate and I love. Perhaps you will ask, why I do this. I do not know, but I feel it and I burn.” 

“Did you know Catullus?” Aziraphale asked. “Back when you were in Rome?”

 _A safe question,_ he figured.

“Not really.” Crowley admitted. “Not as well as he knew me.”

_Not safe at all, it turned out._

“So…you and Catullus are in agreement, then? That love and hate are the same?”

“It’s not that they _are_ the same thing, Angel. The poem just means that they have the same effect.”

“They burn.”

Crowley nodded, his head dangerously close to Aziraphale’s shoulder. “They burn.”

“You have been running into fires for far too long.”

 _‘You have no idea,’_ he wanted to say.

“It’s alright,” he sighed. “They’re warm, and the light they give off is something of a marvel.”

“But they scar you. I’ve seen it.”

“Have you?” He almost laughed, pulling his bare feet away from the angel’s leg. “Can’t get anything passed you.”

He’d noticed it the night before, as Crowley had crawled into bed with him. The soles of the demon’s feet were discoloured shades of red and pink. Peaks and valleys seemed etched into the pads of them, revealing patches of skin that shone like candle wax— smooth and printless. 

“From the church?”

Crowley nodded.

“My dear, why didn’t you say something? I had no idea how badly you were injured that night. You didn’t say—”

“I didn’t want you to know.”

_“But why?”_

“It wouldn’t have made any difference.”

“It would have, Crowley. It would have mattered to me. I could have healed you.”

_Yes, but not in the way I would have wanted you to._

“You’d have tried, but think about it: the injury came from encroaching on holy territory. A little angelic miracle would have only made it worse.”

“I don’t know. We know now that we can share so much. We can trade faces, as the prophetess had written. We can… exist inside of one another, so I don’t see why I wouldn’t be able to heal you.” He sat up straight, leaving Crowley to slump back against his pillow. “I can try it now, if you’d allow me.”

Crowley shook his head; the answer from his lips was barely audible: _“no.”_

“No?”

“No,” he echoed.

Memory itself, Crowley often thought, was a kind of scar tissue. It was added to and added to, shifting focus and ambition overtime to accommodate new information. A child who burns his hand on the stove learns to stay away from it. A child dwelling in a house on fire learns to live with it. Either way, a scar is created, on the body or the heart. So rarely does an injury mar both at once. The scars that lined Crowley’s feet were a warning and a promise: a warning that he was overstepping and the promise that he would do it again for the same reason. He would do it for Aziraphale. 

The fire around him was nothing compared to the one that raged inside his body— within the chambers of his heart. And so he entered churches and burning bookshops and Heaven itself, knowing that the consequences that had found him before would also find him again. Love and fire were inseparable. But he knew one thing and he knew it well: that without the constant threat of fire, his life would have no light in it. In the light, shadows may be seen, but so might everything else. Everything else that makes the shadows bearable.

The scars on Crowley’s feet were proof that Catullus was right. That pain and love are linked, and sometimes they can change us forever.

“I am so, so sorry, Crowley. You must know that.”

Crowley looked up to find Aziraphale on the brink of collapse. The angel swiped anxiously at his eyes as tears emerged. His words could have been hewn from stone, judging by the heaviness with which they fell around him.

“Hey, hey, Angel— don’t cry.” Crowley sat up beside him in the bed and reached for his hand. “If you are apologizing to me, then I feel like I’ve missed something. You know I don’t blame you for anything, right?”

“Perhaps you should,” Aziraphale said, half-laughing, half-sobbing. “You think that love is something that brings you pain… I can’t apologize enough for allowing you to live with this belief for so long.”

“You don’t owe me anything, Angel. I’m happy just to sit beside you; here, or at the Ritz, or anywhere, really. That’s all.”

 _“That’s all,”_ Aziraphale repeated, shaking his head. “That’s everything, my love.”

“Aziraphale…”

“I love you, Crowley. Of course I do.” He cupped the demon’s cheek in his hand, and Crowley leaned into the warmth there, his eyes fluttering closed. “How could I not?” 

_“Angel.”_

“I’m only sorry that I couldn’t tell you sooner. You understand that, don’t you? That I loved you even when I was too afraid to say it?”

“How long?” Crowley asked, his hands wound around the arm that held him. “How long have you known?”

Not known— _felt._

“I couldn’t say. I don’t remember how it started; only that I suspected it for years. I tried to move on— I read and I travelled and I researched and none of it was enough to dissuade me. When you asked me to come away with you, I almost broke. I wanted so badly to go with you.”

The demon gasped, his composure swiftly fraying. “So why didn’t you?” 

Crowley knew why, even as he asked it. Because their lives were not their own, not really. They belonged to sides and to the earth and to each other, in a way. Hurting one meant hurting the other.

He thought of that night a week ago _(had it only been a week?),_ when Aziraphale had touched his skin so softly and purposefully that he had bolted for the door. They were always doing this; crashing together and falling apart. Breaking like waves. They were the storm and the wreckage all at once.

“Because of Heaven and Hell. And because of Gabriel and Michael and all the rest. I’ve dreaded them for years but I dreaded what they’d do to you even more.”

“I know.”

“I should have been _brave,_ Crowley. And I am so sorry that I wasn’t. I cost us so much time…”

“No, shut up.” He reached for Aziraphale’s hand and gave it a squeeze, pretending it was an anchor. “You are the bravest person I know.”

He touched their foreheads together, facing him properly for the first time.

The angel’s eyes were wet and glassy, and Crowley ran his nose over the angel’s cheek in an attempt at distraction. “I know.” He cleared his throat, doing his best to sound firm despite the absence of land beneath his feet— still treading water. “It scares me too.”

“Which part?” The angel whispered.

_The risk, or me, or all of it? The way we keep breaking new barriers on impact? How your eyes widen when you think I can’t see them? Or the way we hold each other so tightly in the dark? Mere days ago, I had no idea what it would feel like to have you in my bed. To feel your body pressed to mine, chest-to-chest, and all the way down. Your feet are cold. Do you know your feet are cold? Come closer and I’ll warm you. Heat will be the only thing left between us._

_Warmth, and certainty._

“Maybe all of it,” the demon confessed to the wall behind him.

“Oh, _my dear.”_

He took Crowley in his arms, enveloping him in a hug. The years seemed to tumble out of them as they clung to one another on the bed. The demon buried his face in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, breathing in the tea-and-chocolates scent of him and remembering. All the times they crossed paths their souls had been meeting, too. 

“I am going to love you,” Aziraphale vowed to the back of his head, “so thoroughly, that you will forget what it felt like to burn. I will buy planters so you can make a garden of this place, and I’ll light candles and burn a fire in our hearth so that you will be warm and illuminated all through the winter. I’ll even let you try and maneuver me into clothing from this century.”

Crowley chuckled, his laugh reverberating through their chests.

“I know you want to.” Aziraphale smiled. “But most of all, I will care for you as I should have done from the beginning.”

Crowley laughed again, pulling away from him. It sounded punched-out and desperate and it only made Aziraphale want to kiss him, chasing the sweetly-broken sound of it. “I want that, too. I want all of it.”

He ran a hand through Crowley’s hair. “I’m so glad.”

“Wait— I forgot to ask you; what’s _your_ favourite poem?”

Aziraphale smiled, making a point not to look away from him. “It’s more of an epigram, really. From Whitman: We were together. I forget the rest.”

 _It is only right,_ thought Aziraphale, _that love be described like this. That ‘togetherness’ be the only thing in need of saying. The rest is just time. Memory, a willing helper, fills in the gaps._

At some point in the night, it had begun to rain outside. The sound of raindrops cascading down the old roof made their little sanctuary above the shop feel warm and secure. For the clouds had broken over them as well, and the water that traced paths down Crowley’s face felt warm on Aziraphale’s hands as he chased them away. 

Crowley held onto him tightly and it felt like forgiveness.

“Would it be alright if I were to kiss you, now?” The angel asked.

Crowley nodded, not trusting his voice. 

Aziraphale held Crowley’s face in his hands as the demon’s lips parted for him, letting him in at last. Crowley whimpered as Aziraphale’s hands wove through the thick of his hair, and before he’d had time to process his own embarrassment, Aziraphale was on him again. The angel kissed his lips, his jawline, his neck, and the crest of his collarbone. He kissed him as thoroughly as Crowley had ever been kissed before. He kissed him like it was his _job._

And Crowley, looking up at those ocean-eyes with the reverence of a poet sailor, let him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3 things:
> 
> 1) Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed this chapter!  
> 2) Latin is the sexiest language and I am taking no notes on this.  
> 3) My not-so-subtle message to y'all is that we are all Crowley. We all deserve to be on the receiving end of Aziraphale-levels of tenderness. May you find it, and may it last!


	7. Amator Meae

Touch can be a very potent thing. For centuries, theologians have poured over tomes and manuscripts uncovering accounts of healers whose hands were extended again and again to the sick and suffering, who clung to them like life-rafts. They say that the touch of a god-fearing man is enough to seal wounds and lighten hearts, just a little. Meanwhile, the touch-starved are more given to poetry than theology, and they tell us that a gentle touch is as close to Heaven as the unlucky ones are likely to get. 

Either way, touch and the deprivation of it causes a reaction to take place.

Touch is the catalyst. From baptisms to blessings, purification requires a meeting in the middle; the celestial hand extended (in some way) to the mortals down below.

Crowley could not bring himself to think of Aziraphale’s touches as purificatory, though he’d often wondered if they would be. He used to lie awake wondering whether or not the angel’s hands would feel something like mercy on his soul (if indeed he had one of those). Perhaps his lips would remind him of how his own used to taste, before he became something else entirely. A world apart. 

Perhaps he wouldn’t even mind it— the memory of what he once was. Not when blue eyes stared back at him with a warmth beyond reasoning.

Yet even though he knew well the taste of sulphur in his mouth, his fallenness did not reign over his heart that night. 

His infernal heart was not all there was.

There was also Aziraphale and his angelic soul. His gaze equivocated no longer as he studied Crowley, gazing at him as though he might be a miracle. Aziraphale’s hands and gaze were far from pitying— they were _reverent._ With his hands, he traced the hard lines of him with a softness Crowley had never known. His fingers danced over the bend of Crowley’s arm and he smiled when his ministrations elicited a shiver. 

And when the angel uttered his name, it sounded like a blessing. Or a softly whispered, _thank you._

The novelty of it hit them in waves as they kissed and held and withdrew. Laughter floated between them easily as names were spoken and touches exchanged. Like the ocean, one would encroach on the shoreline, explore it with lips and hands, and retreat, with a look on his face that seemed to say, _oh, hello._

There was still so much more to uncover. 

The angel slipped a hand beneath Crowley’s nightshirt, swiping his thumb over the small of his back. “You are the most beautiful thing.”

“Stop it.”

“I will not,” he grinned, mischief and sincerity warring on his face. “Gorgeous.”

_“Alright.”_

“Divine.”

A playful belligerence coloured his face. It was an expression Crowley had grown accustomed to seeing across dining tables at the Ritz, or three wine-glasses into a night of banter. But never this close— never with permission to _touch._

“You’re one to talk.”

The angel blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh _please._ Come off it, Angel. You know what you look like.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to reply before clamping it shut again, clearly thinking better of it.

Crowley seized the opportunity to move closer. He clambered into Aziraphale’s lap where he sat on the bed, straddling the angel’s legs. 

“You have the most beautiful eyes.” He told him, taking Aziraphale’s face in his hands. He’d expected him to look away or dismiss him, but Aziraphale simply stared back, his eyes wide and expectant.

The angel’s hand was still on his waist, holding him close. 

“’s funny,” Crowley muttered, “I’ve always dreamed of what it’d be like to tell you that.”

“Nonsense.” The angel swallowed hard and Crowley felt it beneath his wrists.

“No, ’s true. I’ve been dreaming of you since…well, since the Beginning, most likely.”

A somewhat frantic expression played across his features as the movement of his hand ceased. “All this time?” 

Crowley nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat that screamed _‘too much! You’re revealing too much!’_

“What do you dream about, Angel?”

He took Crowley’s hand in his own, his opposite hand still resting on the demon’s back. “I haven’t had a dream yet, I’m afraid— not a one.”

“Oh.” He tried and failed to disguise the disappointment in his voice.

Aziraphale brought Crowley’s hand to his lips and kissed it. “You were laying right next to me; what more is there to dream?”

With a sweetly wounded sound Crowley’s lips crashed into his. Whispers of _‘Angel, Angel,’_ ghosted over his lips as Crowley licked into his mouth. He’d yearned for this moment for so long he’d ached with it. But one touch and he was a live-wire. Every nerve ending in his body screamed for closeness, not knowing when the opportunity would come again. He kept waiting for Aziraphale to pull away or push him off, but he did no such thing. Instead, the angel kissed him back. _Him._ Antony J. Crowley.

Mere hours ago this would have been unthinkable— the bliss buried beneath the blankets. Every caress, every searching hand was met with discovery. Crowley drew a moan from the angel’s lips and he knew it would haunt him, possibly (hopefully) forever. He kissed at the angel’s throat, drawing back the collar.

 _Let me do this for you,_ he thought; _let me love you like this forever. Let me lay my head in your lap on sunny days and make you tea in the winter until our existence is nothing more but light and love and this. I’ll listen to you talk until there aren’t any words and you can hold me when my heart beats too quickly._

_I hope it thrums on like this forever._

But Crowley still hadn’t said it yet— he needed to say it.

He pressed a kiss to the shell of Aziraphale’s ear as he whispered to him, concealing his face as he spoke the words. “I love you, Angel. As you know.”

“I know it, my dear, though it’s sweeter to hear _you_ say it.” Aziraphale told him, his grip around him tightening. “I can sense love, you know.”

“Yeah, and birds fly south for the winter. Big deal.”

The angel smiled, flicking Crowley’s ear in mock annoyance. “I always felt it, though I couldn’t quite manage to translate the meaning of it.”

“What do you mean ‘translate’?” 

He shrugged. “Only that everyone experiences the sensation differently and for different things. And you love so many things.”

Crowley wrinkled his nose as he drew back. “I don’t know about that.”

“You _do,_ I’ve seen it. You love music, your car, the _world_ —”

“And you.” 

“And me.” He placed a hand to Crowley’s face, smoothing away the frown lines around his glistening eyes. “I think that’s why your eyes are so brilliant, you know. Not because of your demonic aspect, as you say, but because of your soul. You’re so full of passion that you burn with it. It’s something I’ve always admired about you…that there’s no lie in your fire.”

Crowley’s eyes drifted shut and he sighed, loosing a small puff of air that had spent far too long pent up in his chest, rattling about his ribcage. 

If a tear or two escaped his golden eyes, neither one acknowledged it. When Aziraphale swiped a hand across his face he pretended it was a strand of hair and nothing more that was in need of an adjustment.

A halcyon moment passed before Crowley was able to speak again. “Do you want to know when I realized that I loved you?”

The angel nodded.

“I’d been wondering about it since Eden, I think, but I could never work out the extent of it. Then one day, you asked me for a favour— some blessing back in Rome— and I agreed. Didn’t even have to think about it, really. Then I heard from Hell. They wanted me to corrupt one of those stuffy aristocrats in the Senate, but I refused. He seemed a nice enough bloke, and it really wouldn’t have mattered in the long run, so I did something else. I went for the emperor instead.” He couldn’t help the reminiscent laugh that fell from his lips. “They were fine with it, in the end. The payoff was much greater than it would have been if I’d just followed orders, but the idea of it haunted me…”

“What idea?”

“The idea that I defy orders on instinct but have no problem helping you at the same time. I realized then that I’m terrible at doing what I’m told, but I’ll do whatever you ask.”

Aziraphale gaped at him with an unreadable expression, his watery eyes wide and uncertain. 

Crowley sealed their mouths together once more, as if to kiss away his confusion. 

Where he went, Aziraphale followed. He kissed him feverishly and quick, until the demon’s lips were swollen and wet, his eyes a lost cause. A blush crept across his neck and cheeks that stopped Aziraphale’s hands in awe of it. _So, so much still to learn…_

“My love,” he said, pushing Crowley down into the blankets. 

He pressed a chaste kiss to his forehead; “my darling.”

Then his cheek; “amator meae.”

_“Angel.”_

He shook his head, ever so slightly. His lips hovered above Crowley’s and although the demon craned his neck to meet him, Aziraphale denied him, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose instead. 

“Ut dilexi vos.” _“How I have loved you.”_

He moved to mouth along the edge of Crowley’s jaw when the demon pulled back, his hand insistent in Aziraphale’s curls. _“Angel.”_

“Yes, my love?”

Crowley simply tugged on his hair a moment, as if he had forgotten the words. “Is it true that you don’t dream?”

“Indeed.”

Crowley nodded; a look of determination clouded his features as he pulled Aziraphale down with him on the bed, tangling their legs together. 

“I can fix that,” he told him, his mouth just inches from his lover’s. “I already taught you how to sleep. Now, let me teach you how to dream.”

Light, Crowley was pleased to discover, did fall on Aziraphale’s bedside. Better than a halo, the sunlight that streamed through the curtains washed him in a glow of pure, unfettered luminance. The ordinary, earthly brilliance of morning looked good on him, Crowley thought. It fell gently over his eyelids that flickered without waking— a delicate line of freckles shifting as he nestled closer to the pillow.

Closer to _Crowley._

The memory of nightfall came to him in bursts. A hand on a cheek and a whisper in his ear as centuries of yearning fell away by the bedside. 

Crowley’s hand still rested in the angel’s hair as he slumbered on his chest. A small cluster of freckles around his shoulder reminded Crowley of a constellation, although the pattern’s origin alluded him. Perhaps it was a new one. Perhaps one that only existed here.

Crowley traced the outline of it lazily, the tender action reminding him of confessions and Aziraphale’s multilingual affections declared between the sheets.

 _His affections,_ he thought, smiling. The affections he harboured for _him._

The memory sits just below the surface, calling to him still:

_“I love you, Crowley; never forget that.”_

_“I might.”_

_The angel pulled away, surprised. “I beg your pardon?”_

_“‘Might forget. ‘m forgetful; it happens.”_

_Crowley catches Aziraphale’s hovering hand, entwining it with his own. “You may have to remind me of it. Often.”_

_Aziraphale, not knowing any other way, indulges him._

_“Constantly, I’m sure.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Few Things:
> 
> Amator Meae = my love, my darling, etc. (I still maintain that Latin is the sexiest language)
> 
> I've also made this fic part of a series called Amator Meae, so check that collection next month for a Christmas special! Or several...depends on my [lack of] self control.
> 
> And of course, thank you so much to everyone who read this fic and left kudos/comments. It means a lot to hear that people are enjoying my work, and it really motivated me to finish this, so thank you!! :)

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [Tumblr](https://celestialsnek.tumblr.com)


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